Page 22 of Whiskey & Wreckage

“Or maybe you cheat with your spooky PI brain.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Not my fault you’re an open book.”

“Rude,” I mutter, but I can’t stop smiling.

We clean up the pizza boxes and beer bottles in companionable silence. He takes the trash out like it’s his place, like this is something we do. Like we’re a thing. And that does weird things to my chest.

When he comes back in, I’m rinsing out the plates in the sink, and he grabs a towel to dry them like it’s no big deal. But it is. Because this man, this near-stranger, keeps showing up for me, over and over again.

Once we’re done, I lean back against the counter and wipe my hands on a dish towel. “Thank you,” I say softly, really meaning it. “Again.”

He looks at me, eyes steady. “You already said that.”

“Well, you keep showing up, so I’m gonna keep saying it.”

We just… stand there for a beat. Close. Warm. Something buzzing in the space between us.

And then I move.

I step in, rising on my toes, aiming for his cheek. Just a soft thank-you kiss. But as I lean in, he turns his head, and suddenly, it’s not his cheek I’m kissing.

It’s his mouth.

Full. Warm. Shockingly soft.

I freeze for half a heartbeat, stunned.

And then,God help me,I kiss him back.

I fist my hand in his shirt, pulling him toward me as he groans low in his chest, his arms already wrapping around me like he’s been waiting to do this. Forever.

He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. The breath leaves my lungs, but I don’t care. Not when his mouth is devouring mine. Not when his hands slip under my shirt, rough palms dragging up my sides, callused fingers grazing skin I didn’t even realize was begging to be touched.

His grip shifts, and in one smooth, wild move, he lifts me off the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, gasping against his mouth as he presses me harder into the wall. The heat between us sparks into full-blown fire, the kiss turning deeper, filthier.

This is not a kiss that says thank you.

This is a kiss that says mine.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard, my forehead resting against his shoulder, heart hammering like I’ve just run a marathon. He doesn’t move. Neither do I.

And then,

“Shit,” he mutters.

That one word cuts straight through the haze.

I pull back slightly, eyes searching his face. He’s not looking at me, he’s staring at the floor, jaw tight, like he’s fighting himself.

“I shouldn't have done that,” he says, voice low, rough. Not regretful exactly… just conflicted as hell.

I swallow. “Thomas…”

But he’s already stepping back, lowering me gently to the ground like he can’t stand the thought of letting go but knows he has to.

“I’ll see you around, Poppy,” he says, his voice unreadable.

And then he walks out. No kiss goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.

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